


I Suppose You're Wondering...

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: When a major military superpower, a former Terran Emperor, an entire village, and a nigh immortal robo-clone thinks you're married, maybe it's time to reevaluate your relationship.





	1. Proper Procedures

Hands held behind his back, Saru twiddles his fingers, working out anxiety he really oughtn’t have at the moment. Expending this much energy to cope with a rather mundane task would be a terrible waste of calories for an apex predator. Fortunately, regardless of Saru’s individual rank, his species falls much lower on the food chain than a lion or Ba’ul; he consumed more than enough plant matter at breakfast to fuel his fidgeting.

“You wanted to see me?” Burnham asks, stepping into Saru’s temporary office.

“Yes, uh, Michael.” He gestures to a chair on the other side of his desk. “Please sit.”

Burnham raises an eyebrow as she sits. “Is there something wrong? You seem…” Her gaze flicks to Saru’s right hand, now twitching at his side. “...concerned.”

He stills his fingers. “No, nothing is wrong. There’s merely a minor administrative matter to clear up.” He sits, folding his hands on his desk. “A small thing, really.”

Michael inclines her head, staring up at him expectantly.

“Yes, well, as you know, while _Discovery_ is undergoing repairs, I am supervising space allocation for our next mission—whatever Starfleet may choose that to be. This includes assigning crew quarters.”

He pauses meaningfully, hoping that Burnham will intuit in what direction this conversation is going and shorten his ordeal. Instead, she stares at him silently, the perfect picture of Vulcan patience.

“Based on crew requests,” he elaborates.

She tilts her head. “Is there an issue with my request?”

“No. No, it’s an entirely reasonable request. It’s not at all unusual for crew to request the same roommate at the start of a new mission. However, those crew are not typically senior officers entitled to private quarters.”

“Tilly and I agree that we would both benefit, as officers and as individuals, by continuing to share a room. Does this pose a problem for you?”

“For me? Not in the slightest. In fact, I submitted the space allocation report to the fleet quartermaster this morning—with you and Ensign Tilly as roommates.”

Michael furrows her brow. “What, if I may ask, is the issue?”

Saru harnesses all of his nervous energy into projecting an aura of calm authority—a must when delivering bad news. “The quartermaster’s office flagged your room assignment as requiring further review.”

“Why?” Burnham shakes her head slowly.

“Before we go any further,” Saru says, interrupting the train of thought barreling through his Science Officer’s head, “I should note that the fleet quartermaster screens all space allocation reports through a software program designed to flag the potential misuse of Starfleet resources. That’s to say—” His voice colors with familiarity. “—this isn’t personal, Michael. Believe me, if I thought anyone in Starfleet were discriminating against you due to lingering vendettas, neither one of us would be discussing this issue so calmly. As the English saying goes, I would have your back.”

Michael smiles slightly. “Thank you, Saru. I appreciate that.”

He bows his head. “Thankfully, we have a much easier battle ahead of us today.” With the need to abate a friend and (temporary) subordinate’s anxiety, some of his own falls away. He continues with less reticence than before. “As I mentioned earlier, it is unusual, but not unheard of, for a senior officer to ask to remain with their past roommate following promotion. This, in and of itself, does not present a problem for Starfleet. However, the quartermaster’s software crossreferences room assignments against records held by personnel relations. This is done to ensure that all domestic partners wishing to cohabitate have registered their relationship status with personnel relations. Obviously, this step is not required for junior crew assigned to shared quarters, but since you are a senior officer…”

Michael smirks. “The quartermaster’s software thinks Tilly and I are trying to game the system, avoid registering as a couple by requesting a shared double instead of couple’s quarters.”

“Well, I don’t know if I would put it in those exact words, but yes.”

“How can I clear this up?”

“Short of withdrawing your request, there are two processes for clearing the flag.” He places two PADDs before Michael. “You can either register a domestic partnership with Ensign Tilly.” He nods his head at the PADD on Michael’s left. “Or you can sign an affidavit swearing that you and Ensign Tilly are not in a domestic partnership.” He nods at the PADD on Michael’s right.

Michael looks down at the desk, considering what should be a fairly obvious decision in Saru’s mind.

“It’s worth noting,” he says, “that it takes some time for personnel relations to process domestic partner—”

Michael picks up the affidavit and signs. 

Saru swallows. “That settles the matter.” He smiles at Michael, who looks slightly dazed. “I’ll forward this to personnel relations right away.”

“Thank you.” She stands slowly. “Am I dismissed?”

Saru cocks his head at the formality. “Yes. Please return to your shoreside duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

She leaves in silence. Through the closing door, Saru watches her stand in the hallway, staring at the carpet, looking for all the world like she doesn’t know where to go next.


	2. And They Were Roommates

The people of this universe, Georgiou observes, have a peculiar habit of asking for solutions only to reject them out of hand. Put a millennia between them and their sentimental society, and the habit only strengthens.

Since following Michael through the wormhole three days ago, Georgiou has been told “no” more than she has in her entire adult life.

It goes without saying that Georgiou does not like the word “no” aimed in her direction—unless it is followed by, “Please! Please don’t! I’m begging you! I have a family!”

After having one of her more mild suggestions shot down (because apparently adhering to strict uniform regulations is the only thing preventing the crew from dissolving into anarchy), she storms out of the morning’s briefing. Stomping down the hall, she wonders why she is even invited to heads of staff meetings when she is neither a head of staff nor someone whose opinions are actually appreciated. She realizes that her inclusion is most likely based in fear that she may, if slighted, try to take command of the _Discovery_.

The familiar thrill of being feared buoys her before the indignity of it all weighs her down. Do they really think the _Discovery_ is worth her time? True, she has a history of command and conquest, but of entire civilizations, not a little ship filled with mushrooms and neurotic sentimentalists. Suspecting her of mutiny is like worrying about Bugsy Siegel shoplifting a candy bar. It could happen, but it’s far below her paygrade.

Turning a corner, she finds the disappointing version of Sylvia Killy working in an alcove, tapping at an auxiliary environmental console. With a smile, Georgiou looks over her shoulder, confirming the absence of any observers, and marches over to the pathetic, red creature. She’s well within Tilly’s personal space before the ensign notices.

“Emper—Agent Georgiou!” Tilly yelps, almost dropping her PADD. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Georgiou replies sternly.

Tilly laughs nervously. “No, I guess I wouldn’t have.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t?”

“No, why didn’t you see me?”

“Oh, uh, I guess I was just a little wrapped up in my work. I kinda get tunnel vision when it comes to routine maintenance.”

With that answer, Georgiou sees two paths in front of her. Based on Tilly’s own insecurities, she can either declare that Tilly will never make Captain (“A Starfleet officer, no matter what universe, must never lose sight of their surroundings!”) or berate Tilly for being a mess of a human being in general (“How can you be so self-absorbed?”). Given the sudden temporal distance between anyone and a real promotion, Georgiou opts for the latter approach.

“I hope you show more attentiveness in your personal relationships,” Georgiou says. To turn the knife further, she adds, “For Michael’s sake, if not your own.”

Tilly recoils. “Michael?” 

“Yes, Michael. Your _roommate_.”

“I know who Michael is. I just don’t know what she has to do with me servicing the corridor’s environmental backups.”

Georgiou scoffs. “Of course, you don’t. You’re too focused on your work.”

“Yeah,” Tilly says slowly. “Because I’m at work.”

“I pray you don’t bring that single-mindedness home with you.”

Tilly holds up her hands, palms out in an “I’m unarmed, please don’t kill me for this” gesture. “I’m sorry, I feel like we’re having two very different conversations. What are you trying to say to me?”

“Fine.” Georgiou crosses her arms over her chest as if guarding her heart. “I was trying to be tactful, but since you insist, I’ll speak plainly.” She pauses. “I don’t think you’re good enough for Michael.”

A deep flush rises to Tilly’s skin: her face, her neck, even the tips of her ears. Finally, the validation Georgiou’s been after all day.

Encouraged, she continues, “You’re an ambitious young woman. You want power and you’re willing to push yourself to get it. This, in and of itself, is admirable. In fact, it’s one of the few things I actually like about you. But that kind of tunnel vision does not leave much room for Michael. It’s only a matter of time before you, like so many other people in her life, disappoint her. Say what you like about me, but I think we can both agree that Michael has already been hurt enough.”

Tilly shakes her head. “I would never hurt Michael. Not for my career. Not for anything.”

“You think that now, but what happens—”

“No,” Tilly gasps. “Michael is my best friend.”

Georgiou leans back, face wrinkling like a child first sampling a lemon. Why must these humans bring friendship into everything? And the incessant rankings! Not only do they claim friendship with practically anyone—their sister, their partner, their cocker spaniel—but they also feel the need to categorize the level of that friendship: best friend, good friend, dear friend. A scale of amity made entirely useless by their unwillingness to rank anyone on the low end. (Philippa has yet to hear anyone refer to a “worst friend” or “least friend.”) 

She chokes back bile. “Even best friends can hurt each other.”

Tilly seems to take this to heart, brow wrinkling as she draws inward. She looks down, disengaging from the conversation. While Georgiou very much enjoys sowing the seeds of self-doubt, quiet introspection isn’t quite so entertaining as outward frustration. Angling to pull Tilly out of herself, Georgiou circles back to what started this line of condemnation, the evidence as it were.

“If you’re so wrapped up in your work that you fail to notice someone a foot away from you, I doubt you’ll be able to notice when Michael needs you,” Georgiou says. “Michael was not raised to display outward signs of distress—not in my universe and certainly not in yours. If she needs your support, she’ll be far easier to ignore than I am right now. You may not intend on abandoning Michael, but you will. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, you will leave her. If not physically, then emotionally.” 

The twee pop psychology tastes chalky in Georgiou’s mouth, but she’s never been squeamish about hoisting her enemies on their own petards. Especially if it gets results; Tilly looks up, face reddening to a degree that looks painful.

Georgiou goes on, “This isn’t something that will get better with time. As you advance in your career and your responsibilities increase, you will have less time and energy for Michael. You will grow apart. And by the time your neglect becomes too much for even Michael to withstand, it will be too late. She will have already wasted the best years of her life on you. You need to decide now if what you—”

“Stop it!” Tilly snaps. “You can’t just—” She groans. “You don’t get to tell me I’m destined for failure because I made one tiny mistake. You’re not my mother.”

The last part lashes Georgiou, stinging her in places she denies even possessing. Because it’s true. She’s not Tilly’s mother. She’s not anyone’s mother. Not anymore. And, in this universe, she never was. But despite the unfathomable distance (in time, in space, in the silkscreen between dimensions), she remains if not a mother, then her mother’s daughter. She hadn’t realized until now how well she learned by example, the tactics she’d picked up outside of her formal lessons.

The things she passed on to an heir who would never take the throne.

Usually, when someone brings up their mother, that means Georgiou has won. But this time, tearing up the deep, Freudian roots of self-doubt balances on the edge of mutual self-destruction. Throwing water on the pyre, Georgiou tries to salvage her victory.

She smiles, clasping Tilly on the shoulder, an awkward imitation of her counterpart. “Well done, Ensign.”

Tilly cuts her eyes at Georgiou’s hand. “Uh…”

“Good leaders do not just exude authority, they challenge it.” Even as she creates the sentence out of whole cloth, she pronounces it with the cadence reserved for old adages universally recognized as truths. “By standing up to me, you’ve shown that you’re ready to—”

“Wait,” Tilly says incredulously, “was that some kind of test?”

She squeezes Tilly’s shoulder, leaning in like a fond conspirator. “As a captain, everything is a test.” She grimaces internally; she may be laying this on too thick. Her hand drops from Tilly’s shoulder. “I wanted to see if you actually had what it takes.”

“Wow,” Tilly says sardonically, “I didn’t realize you were so invested in my career.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Georgiou says. “I only did this to prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That I was right.” She takes a step back. “I knew you had something of Killy in you. No matter what gets said in meetings, I know you have the backbone for command.” 

Georgiou turns on her heel and walks away to the delightful calls of “Who says that? What meetings?”


	3. Brain and (No) Brain, What is Brain?

Tilly has never been a “be careful what you wish for” type of gal. Largely because up until quite recently, her wishes had a way of not coming true, not even in the ironic, O. Henry-esque manner the proverb warns against.

Maybe she should have known that once the universe started granting her wishes (please let my first roommate be kind, please let me get into the Command Training Program, please let Michael be safe) that she would eventually be granted something she never should have wished for in the first place.

She wishes, despite the now apparent danger, that she would have realized this before complaining loud enough for the entire bridge to hear, “I wish just once that I got a normal first contact mission. Not a stowaway in the cargo hold or in my body. Just a normal, ‘hi, how are you? I’m from the United Federation of Planets.’”

Wish granted, she finds herself cursing her recklessness and trying not to doze off during the L’Fari’s seventeenth round of, “[Insert any word here]? What is [insert same word]?”

Don’t get her wrong, Tilly loves explaining things to people. If she wasn’t so traumatized by the Human educational system, she may have become a teacher. But there is quite a difference between indulging the curiosity of an adorable kindergartener and defining basic words to a group of grown adults who’ve resisted all of her attempts to introduce them to a dictionary.

“The starship _Discovery_ extends its hand in friendship,” Tilly drones. “We hope that our civilizations—”

The mayor of this particular L’Fari village stands. “Friendship? What is ‘friendship?’”

Tilly suppresses a groan. “Friendship is when two or more people are friends,” she answers, because they have to know what friends are, right? They can’t be that dense.

The mayor tilts her head. “Friends? What is ‘friends?’”

She may actually weep. “Friends is…” She hesitates, scrolling through a mental list of definitions, all of which are bound to contain at least five words the L’Fari don’t know. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Michael working with the L’Fari chamber of commerce, trying to map out the specifics of their surprisingly intricate economy.

Tilly smiles. “Commander Michael Burnham…” She gestures to Michael. “...and I…” And back to herself. “...are friends.”

“You have friendship?” asks another local dignitary (the postmaster, Tilly thinks?).

“Yes.” Tilly smiles, wakening facial muscles deadened by boredom. “Michael and I have friendship.”

The L’Fari nod in understanding Tilly isn’t entirely convinced they possess.

“How did you get the friendship?” the postmaster asks, as if it were just another package to be delivered.

“Well, um, it just sort of…” Tilly trails off. “Um, we met, and we spent time together, and we realized that we liked doing that, and then we grew to really care for one another. And now I can’t imagine not having Michael in my life.”

“Oh,” the L’Fari murmur collectively.

“So you are married?” asks the schoolmaster (who, by the way, is clearly failing in his job).

“No, no, no. We’re not married. We’re just friends. I mean, not ‘just friends’ like it’s some kind of consolation prize. Our friendship is actually a really significant part of my life. I don’t want to undersell that. I mean, I followed her through a wormhole, leaving behind basically everything I know in the process, so it’s not really a ‘just friends’ situation. More like an ‘our friendship has completely transformed my life in a way I never could have expected, but I would never want to change a thing’ type deal? If that makes sense?”

“No,” the L’Fari mutter.

The town doctor steps forward. “To be clear, you and Michael do not…” She searches the air for a euphemism. “You and Michael go to different bedrooms at night?”

“No,” Tilly says, “we share a room. We’re roommates.” She clarifies, “But we sleep in separate beds.”

This earns her several pitying glances.

“Which is fine,” Tilly protests far too quickly. “Not every meaningful, life-shattering, mind-expanding relationship has to involve sex. In fact, it’s probably better that this one doesn’t.” Tilly wants to elaborate on why that’s the case, but fails to find any compelling reason.

“Ah,” the town cryer says, “you find her ugly.”

“No. What? No. Michael is gorgeous,” Tilly babbles. “She fits like every Human beauty standard from the last millennia. She has a body I would literally kill for.”

“But her face?” the butcher asks. “It is not good?”

“No, she has the bone structure of a goddess.”

“She has bad breath?” the baker offers.

“Minty fresh.”

“She steals cattle?” the candlestick maker asks.

“No! There’s nothing wrong with Michael. We just don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Ah!” the town cryer shouts triumphantly. “She finds _you_ ugly!”

Only years of Starfleet training and the faintest promise of promotion to captain keep Tilly from abandoning her post and walking directly into the L’Fari sea.


	4. Title Drop

In the many, many years since she was last held hostage, Michael is disappointed to report that kidnapping, as an industry, has not advanced significantly. The same tactics are still in play: chemical sedation, removal to a secondary location, physical restraint, and, most unfortunately, longwinded tirades from a kidnapper who really should be keeping his mouth shut.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I managed to stay alive so long,” Mudd says, stroking his scraggly beard. “Was it suspended animation? Cryogenics? Clean living?”

Still dazed, Michael points to the exposed wires dangling from his hand, threatening to set his beard ablaze with each spark. “You’re an android,” she mumbles.

Mudd looks down at his smoking appendage. “Damn it!” He blows on his hand.

Michael’s eyelids flutter shut, the sedative doing a damn good job of convincing her that no harm could befall her. Despite the circumstances and the very real chance of an electrical fire.

Snapping fingers jolt her awake. She opens her eyes just in time to see Mudd recline against the kitchen counter in a pose of studied indifference.

“Oh,” he says, “you’re awake. I suppose you’re—”

Michael only realizes she's passed out again when she feels the hand jerking her back into consciousness.

“Spock, stop it,” she murmurs.

“I’m afraid your brother isn’t here. There’s no one but your old pal, Harcourt Fenton Mudd. Now, I suppose you’re wondering—”

Even in her diminished state, Michael realizes these interruptions will only continue and that perhaps staying present may be beneficial. With very few faculties to her name, she groans, “Coffee!”

The next time her eyes open there’s a steaming mug under her chin and a straw pressed against her bottom lip. She drinks greedily, heedless of the danger. Although, really, if Mudd wants to poison her, he can just hit her with another hypospray, and clearly he wants a live, captive audience.

She’s halfway through the mug before realizing how wrong she is. She looks up at Mudd. “This isn’t coffee.”

“No.” He smirks. “It’s raktajino.”

“Rakta-whom?”

“Rakta- _whom_?” he mimics. “God, you’re such a Vulcan.”

“What is it?” Michael asks firmly, regaining some of her steel.

“Klingon coffee. Espresso went out of style about eight hundred years ago, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

Mudd presses a hand to his chest. “What e’er shall I do?” He looks down at the raktajino. “Are you gonna drink that or can I put it down? I don’t know how many more miles I have on that arm.”

Glaring at him, Michael sucks at the straw until it makes an ugly, sputtering sound. Mudd takes the mug and places it on the counter.

“Now that you’re sufficiently caffeinated, I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you here, what I want so badly I wou—”

“Not really,” Michael says, “but I assume it’s something entirely illogical bordering on the pathetic.”

“You have a father, don’t you, Michael?” Mudd seems to skip ahead a few lines in his script.

“Most organisms do.”

“Then you know what it’s like to be rejected, cast aside, abandoned. My father made hundreds of robo-clones and left every last one of us to rust. One by one, I watched my brothers succumb to fragmentation, viruses, madness… Until I was the only one left. I’ve traveled this galaxy alone for centuries, the sole member of my species, the heir to a legacy I never wanted. The only thing that has kept me going is the sliver, the glinting shard of possibility that I could one day—”

“Seek revenge,” Michael finishes. “You want to go back in time and get revenge against your father.”

Mudd sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really? Come on! I made you raktajino. The least you could do is listen to me.”

Michael blinks slowly. “Fine. Please continue rehashing _Frankenstein_.”

Mudd pitches his voice higher in imitation, “ _Hi, I’m Michael. I grew up on Vulcan. I read classical literature._ ” He blows a raspberry. “Please. Frankenstein’s creature was a sad little zombie moping around Europe because daddy wouldn’t make him a girlfriend. I don’t need a science experiment to get laid. There are people lining up from here to the Beta Quadrant to do a robot. Don’t ask me why, but people are very into it. Honestly, the whole thing can feel a little objectifying at times.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m not hunting down dear old dad because my love life isn’t working out. I’m a career criminal. This is my job. I don’t do it because it scratches some emotional itch, I do it because it pays. And, Mikey, there’s gonna be one helluva payout when I get back to the 23rd century.”

He pauses expectantly.

“How, I guess?” Michael asks flatly.

“Step one: chip off the old block knocks daddy’s block off. _Papa, can you hear me?_ ” he singsongs. “No, he can’t because he’s dead. Step two: assume dearly departed dad’s identity. Step three: leverage his connections and limited assets to build the kind of criminal empire he never had the brains to. Step four: who cares? I’m rich.”

“Wow,” Michael drawls. “Most people would use your functional immortality to create great works of art, make unprecedented scientific discoveries, or explore the fundamental questions of existence.”

“Don’t lecture me on being immortal. I played that ‘what is life?’ game for decades, and, you know what I found out?” He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Nothing matters.” He lowers his hands and leans down, gripping his knees. "We're here because we're here. So we might as well enjoy it."

"Yeah, you seem like you're having a great time."

"Oh, I am happier than I've been in centuries. Now that time travel has fallen into my lap."

He straightens and slowly turns away from her. Blocking, Michael assumes, he staged while she was unconscious. She will admit it’s dramatic the way he grips the counter and breathes raggedly. More importantly, it’s useful, giving her a chance to test her restraints.

“Do you know how many methods for time travel I’ve come across over the years?” he asks, voice suddenly gruff.

Michael wiggles her wrist. Damn, the 32nd century knows how to make synthetic rope. She could probably fashion a functioning hull patch with how hardy it is.

“Twenty-eight. You know how many I’ve managed to use? None. You would think that in all this time, ol’ Fenty would have squeezed in one little trip back to the 2250s. But, no, nobody would ever let me use their precious little timeship. Not for love or money.” He looks over his shoulder; Michael stills. “And believe me, I’ve tried both.”

He turns back to the kitchen counter. Michael tries her ankle restraints. Say what you will about Harry Mudd (and Michael will once she gets out of here), but his robo-clones have an impressive command of knots.

Mudd chuckles. “Apparently, I would abuse the technology. Which I’m sure none of the galactic superpowers building timeships ever considered.” He turns to face Michael, crossing his arms over his chest. “To be fair, the Bajorans would have let me use the Orb of Time if I formally converted and was in ‘dire spiritual need.’”

Michael has very little idea what that last part was about; she’s still slogging through a millennia of historical records. At any rate, with the restraints holding tight, she needs to keep him talking, delay whatever he intends to do with her, so she asks, “Why didn’t you?”

“I tried, but the conversion process skid to a halt once they realized I was less Human than they assumed.”

Michael cocks her head to the side. “They wouldn’t let you join their religion because you’re an android?”

“First of all.” He points to his chest. “Not an android.” He waves his hand in front of his face. “Robo-clone. There’s a difference. And, second, they were actually pretty welcoming.”

“Then what was the problem?”

He sighs. “There was this whole debate amongst the vedeks about whether I had a soul or not. It was dragging on way too long, so I got out of there.”

“Do you have a soul?”

He jabs his finger in her direction. “That’s the difference between androids and robo-clones. I don’t ask that question.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Are you afraid of the answer?”

“Are you afraid if you stop asking questions, I’ll slit your silly biological throat?” 

This, she notes, is the first time he’s even vaguely threatened her. She files away the soul question as a possible pressure point for later.

“Don’t worry,” Mudd says. “You’re no good to me dead.”

“How comforting,” she says dryly.

“I suppose you’re wondering why, out of everyone on _Discovery_ , I kidnapped you.” He’s lost his verve; he sounds like he’s reading from a prompter.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“We’re already here.” He shrugs. “You were hardly the obvious choice: a xenoanthropologist with a martyr complex. What role could you have possibly played in your ship’s miraculous appearance in the 32nd century? But then again this isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

Michael swallows. “Her?”

“Your little red angel. Don’t bother looking stoic; I’ve managed to pick up a few of your intraship transmissions. A bit scrambled, but the pet name came through loud and clear. It was only a matter of bribing a few space stations for your ship manifest and then assembling dossiers for every member of your crew and then—I won’t bore you with the details. It was a lot of work. More work than anyone named Mudd has ever done before. But it led me to the one person on _Discovery_ who could’ve mastered time travel. A brilliant, _red-haired_ theoretical engineer.”

Michael struggles against her restraints. “Where’s Tilly? What did you do to her?”

“Relax. She’s safe and sound on _Discovery_ with all the equipment she needs to build me a timesuit. And I’m sure she’ll be quite eager to make one when she realizes I’ve got you, the one person she would do anything for.” He bows with a flourish. “Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind.” He stretches his arm toward the floor. “Give it up for the band! Whoo!” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Michael snaps. “And pathetic.”

“Aw, don’t get mean. I’ll let you walk as soon as your wife gets me the timesuit.”

Michael narrows her eyes. “Tilly’s not my wife.”

“Sorry, your fiance.”

“We’re not engaged.”

“Fine, your girlfriend.”

“We’re not dating.”

Mudd wrinkles his nose. “Really? Wow.” He shakes his head. “Humans are doing worse than I thought.”

“Does this mean you’ll let me go?”

He laughs. “Please. For all I know, you could be lying. For your sake, I hope you are. But even if you aren’t, you two are undeniably devoted to one another. In fact, I’m surprised your red angel hasn’t stormed in here, phasers blazing to res—”

Glass shatters behind Michael. A round projectile nearly misses her head. It lands on the floor and flashes.

The blast knocks out Mudd, the lights, and the digital clock over the food synthesizer.

“Sorry!” Tilly calls from somewhere behind Michael. “I didn’t mean to—” 

The sounds of exertion, glass crunching, a body rolling onto the floor. Tilly pops up in front of Michael.

“I got a little too close to your head with that one.” She wipes a strand of hair out of her face. “Sorry. I swear I had much better aim on the Academy softball team.”

Michael smiles, tilting her head toward the ball. “EMP?”

Tilly nods. “The single set of lifesigns gave him away.”

“Is he…?”

“Oh, no! I mean, god, he deserves it, but even the most rudimentary androids have backup systems. He’ll reboot in a few minutes, give or take, then feel like hell for a few days. Which again he definitely deserves for what he—”

On the floor, Mudd groans, curling into the fetal position.

“You alright, Fenty?” Michael asks.

“I want my dad,” he moans.


	5. Aftermath

Tilly sits at the foot of Michael’s bed. “I know you’re the victim here and you really had no choice in what happened to you, but, um, it would be great in the future if you could not be kidnapped again. Because that was really scary.”

Michael smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

Tilly lays a hand on Michael’s arm still slick with lotion. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”

“It actually wasn’t that bad.”

“Michael…” Tilly admonishes in the way only she can, layering her name with the weight of their past conversations—about Michael’s reckless bravery, how she minimizes her own struggles, the way she treats herself with less regard than she would anyone else.

“It wasn’t great,” Michael admits. “I wouldn’t want to repeat the experience, but, to be honest, the whole time I was tied up in Mudd’s safehouse, there wasn’t a single moment I feared for my life.”

Tilly opens her mouth to speak and Michael can already hear what she’s going to say: “Yeah, because you’re the Evel Knievel/Buster Keaton/Harry Houdini of martyrdom.”

Before Tilly has a chance, Michael interrupts. “And, no, it’s not because I don’t value my own life. Despite what some people may say, I do. More and more everyday.” She pauses. “I wasn’t scared because I knew you would save me. I didn’t have to fear for my life because it was in your hands.”

A year ago, that would have gotten her a blush, downcast eyes, a flustered, “Michael…” But neither of them are the same people they were a year ago thanks in large part to each other. 

Instead, Tilly grips Michael’s hand with both of hers and says, “That’s really sweet. And as much as I want to encourage you to have faith in others…” She squeezes Michael’s hand. “I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of net to catch you whenever you go on a martyrdom spree. When the chips are down, like they were today, you can count on me, but I’m not Spock. I’m not gonna spot you while you self-destruct.”

Michael squeezes back. “I know. Believe me, I’m trying to change. It’s hard, learning how to be kind to Michael Burnham, but you’re a really good teacher.”

Tilly smiles tightly. “Speaking of, I should let you get some rest. I know you’re tired.”

She moves to stand, but Michael stops her with a firm hand on her knee, pressing her back down onto the bed, into this conversation.

“Tilly.” Michael stares at her hand, how it finds a place on Tilly’s body, where else it could go. “Do you love me?”

“Of course. You’re-you’re my best friend.”

“Not like that.” Michael tries to look her in the eye, but her gaze only gets as far as the flush blooming on her neck. “Are you in love with me?”

Tilly exhales, lungs shuddering in her chest. “I could be. If you let me. If I let me.”

Not knowing quite what to do with that revelation, Michael makes one of her own: “You’d make a really great wife.”

“ _Michael_ ,” Tilly scolds, half-coo, half-groan.

Michael manages to get her eyes on Tilly’s chin. “That was a little forward.”

“You think?” Tilly laughs.

“I know his opinion probably doesn’t mean much to you, but Mudd thought we were married. He actually seemed a little disappointed when I told him we weren’t together.”

Tilly’s voice box bounces as she swallows. “That makes two of us. Or more like three hundred if you count that L’Fari village.”

“The L’Fari?”

“They were fairly confused about us not being together but then again they were fairly confused about everything. Also, I’m pretty sure Emperor Georgiou thinks we’re living in sin,” she says breathlessly. “She’s given me more than a few ‘what are your intentions for my not-daughter?’ talks.”

“What are your intentions?”

Tilly takes her hand again. “I want to be your best friend. If we can do that while being together, that would be amazing. But if we can’t… I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“Neither do I.” She runs her thumb along Tilly’s knuckle. “But I don’t want to sleep in separate beds for the rest of my life either.”

“We could take it slow maybe? Test the waters before diving in?”

Michael watches the flush rise to Tilly’s ears. What would that heat feel like against her lips? She swallows. Looking before she leaps has never been Michael’s modus operandi, but as long as she gets to look…

“I think I can do that,” she says.

Tilly stands abruptly, wringing her hands. “I know we should probably kiss now to make things official, but I have a lot of adrenaline from earlier and if we kiss now, I will try to get you naked, and that would really undermine Mission Take-It-Slow.” She rocks on her heels. “So, um, I am gonna go for a run and then take a very long hydroshower. So, if you feel the need to use the showerhead attachment while I’m gone, and you’re looking at me like you do, don’t bother putting it away. I will need it later. Yeah, I’m gonna go.” 

She shoots two finger phasers at Michael and away. She gets four steps closer to the door before whirling back around with an “oh, what the heck.” Tilting Michael’s chin up, she plants a soft, slow kiss on her mouth. Before Michael has a chance to think much less slip her tongue, Tilly pulls away.

“Really leaving now,” she calls, sprinting out the door.

Touching a hand to her lips, Michael collapses onto her bed and does something no other lover has ever inspired her to do.

She laughs.


	6. Coda

Saru skims through the registration form, every proverbial i dotted and t crossed. “I don’t know who you expect me to submit this to—we’re about a millennia away from personnel relations—but I appreciate your thoroughness.”

He looks up from the PADD, catching Michael in a moment of unguarded, hand-holding giddiness with Tilly.

Michael quickly schools her expression. “Is there anything else you need, Captain?”

If Saru didn’t know any better, he’d think a subconscious desire to fraternize with a junior officer played a role in Michael refusing the captaincy. But he does know better and well enough to realize Michael has more than she needs on her plate without taking command. Still, the freedom to pursue this most expected joy without the appearance of favoritism must be quite the perk.

“No,” he says. “Petty Officer Davies will handle your relocation to couple’s quarters. He should be in touch by tomorrow at the latest.” He smiles and, just to tease, adds, “If you’re in need of a captain to perform his ‘one happy privilege,’ you know where to find me.”

Michael glances at Tilly with an expression of overwhelming fondness. “We might take you up on that.”


End file.
